Bethesda, Maryland
Thursday, November 27, 8:07 p.m.
For a special task force, they really weren’t very good.
The trick to surveillance detection is to never let them know that you’ve made them. Let them think they’re observing you undetected. Meanwhile, to make them start to doubt that you’re really a viable suspect, you do nothing but innocuous things. You bore them to death.
He’d picked up the team following him the minute he left his apartment, just before six o’clock. He drove over to the city lot across from the Barnes amp; Noble and parked. Then he spent half an hour browsing its bookshelves, before taking the thriller he’d purchased to a restaurant right around the corner. He sat there reading and eating for a bit, forcing the plainclothes cop they sent in to keep an eye on him nurse a beer at the bar. Finally, he led them on a grocery-shopping expedition before returning home.
There were two more unmarkeds staking out his building tonight, parked in spots different from the ones they occupied last night. He made them the minute he turned into the short side street running alongside the highrise. Never glancing in their direction, he swung down the ramp into the garage, leaving the Forester in its usual space.
Tonight, like all the previous nights since Annie had tipped them to his address, he’d been working to lull them into thinking that he wasn’t going anywhere.
He flipped on all the lights when he entered the apartment, left all the curtains wide open, too. See, fellows? Nothing to hide. Even though he swept his car and apartment and found no bugs, so far, he whistled while he put away the groceries and fed the cat-just in case they’d installed some while he was out.
The absence of bugs told him they didn’t have enough on him to get a court order. So this was still just a fishing expedition. Cronin and his buddies had suspicions, but nothing solid. Tonight, though, his goal was to satisfy them that they could rule him out as a suspect.
He turned on the TV in the living room, cranked up the volume a bit. Poured a glass of wine and made a show of walking past his windows with it in hand. Yep, just another lonely single dude, dumped by his girlfriend, spending another quiet, pathetic evening home alone with his cat. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along…
He collapsed onto the sofa, not bothering to watch the popular amateur dance competition on the tube. Luna had disappeared somewhere else in the apartment, leaving him alone with his plans. And his demons.
His “girlfriend.” He remembered when he’d called her that. He fought down his anger as her image flashed into his consciousness. It had been so long since he’d let anyone in. He’d let her in, all right. He had to admit it: He’d fallen in love. Hard. Like he’d never fallen for anyone before. Yes, he had opened himself, even admitting to her that he had been betrayed before.
And he’d been prepared to open up even more. All the way. To tell her everything, past and present. He had understood from the beginning that if this were to grow into something important, he couldn’t keep her in the dark. Eventually, she’d have to know.
For him, it had become something important. So important, that he was ready to walk away from everything else. Ready to let all the chips fall as they might, when he told her. Ready, because he thought she was worth it.
And look where it had gotten him.
She’d been playing him. How long, he wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter that she loved him, either. Of that, he had no doubt; he could tell how conflicted she was. But he didn’t give a damn about her conflicts. You either love someone, or you don’t. You either trust somebody all the way, or you don’t. And she had betrayed him. That was all that mattered. She was working with the cops to bring him down. Why, he didn’t know. And couldn’t care less.
Not anymore.
Okay, so if she wanted to play him, he’d play her right back. She’d become part of his alibi for this evening.
He pulled a cell from his pocket, inserted its battery, and keyed in her number.
“Hello?”
He felt in icy control. “Hi, you.”
Hesitation. “Hi, you.”
“I’m just calling to tell you how much I miss you, Annie.”
Silence. Then: “Oh, Dylan. Me, too… I wish I could be there tonight… I’m so confused.”
Sure you are. “You still haven’t told me about what.”
“It’s so complicated.” She paused, then added: “There’s so much that we don’t know about each other.”
“Apparently not.” He heard the edge creeping into his voice. Careful.
“Remember what we talked about on our first date? That we both have trust issues?”
“I remember. Very well, in fact.”
“I…I just can’t seem to get past mine.”
He found himself gritting his teeth. “Well, I thought I’d gotten past mine. But maybe not.”
“Dylan-I keep going back and forth on this in my mind. Some days, I want desperately to see you. But other days, I just want to run away.”
“I know how you feel.”
A long pause.
“You sound so distant,” she said.
The undertow of anger began to tug at him. He didn’t want to say it, but he had to.
“I thought we had something very special, Annie. I don’t exactly know what happened. I feel blindsided, though. It still sounds as if you have some things to sort out. ‘Things,’ plural.”
She didn’t respond.
“Okay, so how about we leave it this way: Let’s take a bit of a break, a couple of weeks. Take the time to try to figure out what we each need. And whether what we each need can mesh together.”
“If that’s what you want.” Her voice sounded soft. Tentative.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with what I want. It’s what I think we need, though. You need some time. I do, too.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call you again in a few weeks. Right now, though, I feel like crap. I think I’m going to wrap things up here, then turn in early.”
“All right,” she said. Then: “You promise you will call me, won’t you?”
“I promise,” he found himself saying.
“Dylan?”
“Yes?”
Her breath was coming in short, broken gasps. He realized she was crying.
“Dylan…I do love you.”
Someone was squeezing his chest, so tight that he could hardly breathe. He clenched his jaw tight. No, he wouldn’t say it. He had vowed to himself that he would never say that again. To her. To anyone.
He closed his eyes. “I love you, too, Annie.”
He had to snap the phone shut.
He cursed himself for his weakness. Cursed her for her hold on him.
This was no time to be a pussy. He had to focus on tonight’s mission. He knew he could always control his emotions when he focused on the mission.
After a few minutes, he felt the coldness return. She was just an alibi, now. Nothing more.
He checked his watch. Just after nine. Time to move.
He removed the battery from the cell, then went through the same routine he’d established on the previous nights. He clicked off the television, rose from the sofa, stood in front of the balcony door, and stretched. Then drew the curtains shut and turned off the living room lamps.
He went into the kitchen and filled Luna’s water bowl and food dish. She heard the noises and emerged from her hiding place to feast.
Entering the bedroom, he flipped on the lights and the other TV, then shut the curtains there, too. Unseen now, he spent the next five minutes sweeping the whole apartment for bugs. It was still clear.
He entered the walk-in closet, changed clothes, then went into the bathroom to do the rest of his prep. When he was done, he stood in front of the full-length mirror on its door, making sure everything looked just right.
At nine-forty, he set the timers on the circuits in the bedroom. He left the lights and TV on when he left the room, closing the door behind him.
It was dark in the living room, now. He sat down to wait. After a moment, Luna joined him on the sofa. She pranced back and forth under his hand as he pet her.
“Well, girl,” he said softly, “I’ve had to make some substitutions on the team. Since Hyattsville, things have gotten a little too hot for Lex, so I’ve benched him. Maybe permanently. Tonight will be Shane Stone’s turn again.” He smiled. “As we know, he’s every bit as good.”
He felt her flop against him, purring. He reached down, found and scratched her head. Sat there, thinking. Recalling the Vigilance for Victims meeting. Remembering the haunted faces.
Remembering his silent vow to them.
“You can’t walk away,” he repeated, aloud to himself. “You have to finish this. But there’s more to do, yet. A lot more.”
He felt the cat lick his hand with her sandpaper tongue. Felt himself smile in response.
“So, you still up for this?”
He heard a contented purr in the darkness.
“Glad you’re still on the team.”
*
He kept checking his illuminated watch. At nine minutes before ten, he rose, opened the door to the apartment, and checked outside. The hallway was clear. He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him, then moved quickly to the fire door onto the emergency stairwell. It took him a couple of minutes to descend to the garage level. From behind the door there, he peered outside. Watched an arriving couple get out of their car and walk toward the elevator. When its doors closed, he left the stairwell and walked without hurry over to the car.
It wasn’t the Forester, which remained in its spot on the other side of the garage. This one was a black 2007 BMW 7 Series High Security sedan. Dark-tinted windows and lots of useful toys. He got in, not worrying about the garage’s security cameras. Their tapes, if ever checked, would reveal the vehicle’s registered owner: the older, wealthy, seldom-seen occupant of unit 7D.
*
At two minutes before ten, Cronin nudged his partner. A vehicle’s headlights were visible inside the garage’s entrance.
They watched a sleek black BMW emerge. “Nice wheels,” he said.
“Not his, though,” Erskine answered.
“Don’t assume. Remember, he had that pizza truck in the garage over there across the street.”
Erskine pointed at the building and raised his binoculars. “Not him, though. I just saw his bedroom lights go off, this very second.”
Cronin looked. The bedroom window to his apartment, lit brightly just seconds ago, had gone almost dark; only the intermittent flickering of his television screen was visible through the linen curtains.
“See? He can’t be in two places at the same time. He’s up there watching TV, like he always does before he goes to sleep.”
At that moment, Cronin felt the vibration in his jacket pocket. He took out his cell and noticed the Caller ID. “It’s our girl,” he said, then flipped it open. “Ed Cronin here.”
“Sorry to bother you this late, Detective Cronin,” she said. Her voice sounded stressed.
“No bother at all, Ms. Woods. We’re watching his place. But you sound upset. Is everything all right?”
He heard her draw a deep breath. “I’m just calling to say that I can’t do this anymore.”
Erskine threw him a questioning look. Cronin put his finger to his lips, then put her on speaker, so his partner could listen in. “Tell me what’s the matter,” he said, keeping his voice gentle.
“He called tonight. Just a little while ago. We talked only briefly. But I could tell how hurt he was. He doesn’t think he can trust me.”
Erskine rolled his eyes.
“Ms. Woods, I understand you’re upset. But think about it. If he’s guilty of something, of course he would be angry if he thought he couldn’t continue to con you.”
“You didn’t hear me. I said hurt, not angry. Detective Cronin, I know him. And yes, I realize he’s not telling me everything about his past, and yes, some things still don’t add up. But I also know that he’s a decent man. And a compassionate one, in so many ways. He has the strongest code of personal honor of any man I’ve ever known. So I just can’t buy your theory about him. I don’t think he’s involved.”
“My theory doesn’t contradict anything you said, though. If I’m right, he’s probably the brains behind the vigilante team. He’s certainly intelligent enough. And as for his code of honor-Ms. Woods, have you ever heard the term ‘righteous slaughter’?”
“No. What’s that?”
“It’s when somebody kills a bunch of people because he’s convinced himself that they deserve it. You see it all the time with mass murderers-the guys who walk into some fast-food joint or post office and mow down everybody in sight. They always have some grand excuse for it, some grievance or injustice they think rationalizes their revenge. The people they shot all had it coming to them. Well, that’s not much different from the way vigilantes think, is it?”
“Except that in this case, the people getting shot really do deserve it.”
Erskine grinned and gave a thumb’s-up; Cronin scowled at him.
“Well, miss, that’s not for us to decide. We just can’t let individuals decide for themselves who lives and who dies, and for what reason. But you’re forgetting things. Like that pizza van you’re sure he was in. How do we explain things like that?”
“Detective, we both know he takes elaborate security precautions. He has to. That was probably part of it: something he does so that people can’t follow him. Have you asked yourself how much of his behavior can be explained by simple paranoia?”
“Fair point, I suppose. But why would he have to be paranoid about us? We’re on his side. But he’s not been fully honest, either with me or with you.”
“You know exactly why he’s not been open with you-he told you himself. He knows you’re associated with the people who want to silence him. And I know why he can’t trust me, either. It’s because I’ve been deceiving him, almost since the day we met. About important things that he has a right to know. I think he senses it. And I think that’s why he’s holding back. He has damned good reason not to trust me. Not to trust either of us, Detective. Maybe if we give him more reasons to believe in us, he’ll open up and tell us the things we need to know.”
He gave up. “Okay. So how did you leave it with him?”
“He said we probably both need a little break from each other. A couple of weeks. Then he wants to try to work things out.”
“Anything else?”
“Just that he was really beat tonight and wanted to turn in early.”
He glanced up at the window, watched the light from the TV moving on the curtain.
“Ms. Woods, I told you that I’d love to believe this guy. I really would. So you trust him, then.”
“With my life.”